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PS 3503 
.U21 R5 
1909 
Copy 1 



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FRANK \ \ 
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BUCKLAND \ \ 


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Copyright N" 



COPyRIGllT DEPOSnV 




I m tnese flowery meads would be, 

Xnese crystal streams should solace me. 

— Walton. 



Rhymes of the 
Stream and Forest 




By 
FRANK MERTON BUCKLAND 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS I 
Two Conirs Pect-ived j 

Copyntrnt Entry 

CLASS OCl AAc. ^J ., 

COPY 0. 



^ 
Ki 



Copyright, 1909 

by the 

Forest and Stream Publishing Co. 

New York 



Oo !Jtli? !Jttotl)er 



r ore word 

TO those who love the forest, and who find 
a rare companionship in the murmur of a 
flowing stream, there come moods when that 
love and companionship seek expression in at- 
tempted rhyme. Let such be my apology for that 
herein contained. 

The inspiration, if such there be, of what I 
have written, has come from the forests and the 
streams, themselves. The actual writing, in most 
cases, having been first done upon some stray bit 
of paper, found in my camp-kit or in the pocket 
of my fishing coat. 

The reason for the present form of publication 
lies in the fact that most anglers cherish those 
rhymes, however crude, that treat of their be- 
loved recreation, or of the grandeur of Nature. 
Because of this fact I have here, in reproducing 
the essential features of a Fly-book, endeavored 
to present a means whereby such rhymes, wher- 
ever found, may be preserved. 

Within the pocket, where in the actual Fly- 
book are found the leaders and various other 
necessities of the angler's art, may be preserved 
magazine and newspaper clippings. Again, 
within the ordinary Fly-book are found blank 
leaves separating those containing the multi- 
colored assortment of flies. Such blank pages 
in this present volume are intended for whatever 
copying or original verse it may be desired to 
preserve. 



Voices of tke Stream and Forest 

Voice of the Stream ! What measured sweetness lies 

Within the spell of thy rare harmony. 
What fancies of the long-gone past arise, 

When to the ear is born thy melody. 

Voice of the Forest! Whose half-heard refrain, 
Steals on the sense in whispered mystery. 

Would that around my soul might fall again 
The charm of thy breeze-murmured witchery. 



Contents 



Page 

The Silent Places i 

The Stream's Enchantment 2 

WaJton's Angler 4 

The Trout's Beauty 6 

Fishing 9 

Old Rod 10 

The Forest Voices 12 

I'm a-Longing 14 

The Brook — In Summer 17 

In Autumn 18 

In Winter 19 

In Spring 20 

The Moose 23 

Winter's Slow Retreat 33 

Night's Witchery. 34 

At Night (a Contrast) 35 

Thy Voice 36 

To Prime's "I Go A-Fishing" 39 

"Have You Any Fish?" 40 

The Forest Silence 42 

Lord of the Forest 45 

The Voices 46 

Newfound Lake — A Memory 47 

The Forest 48 



Contents — continued 

Page 

The Player 51 

At Evening 56 

And Yet Again 59 

My Fly-Book 60 

The Old Man's Story 62 

Song of the Forest 67 

Parmachenee Belle 68 

Coming of the Storm 70 

The Unknown Lake 75 

At the Trail's End 76 

To Y— Pond 78 

Cry of the Loon 81 

Winter Voices 82 

Wilderness 84 

Somewhere 87 

The Fallen Pine 88 

Going Home go 



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The Silent Places 

I love the silent places where the trees 

With moss-encrusted trunks, their ranks re- 
peat, 

Where whispers low, from every passing breeze 
Seem but to make the silence more complete. 

I love to roam far from the paths of men. 
To feel the heart-throb of the ancient wood, 

To stand perhaps within some shadowed glen 
Where once of old some painted warrior stood. 

I love to thread the dim-lit forest aisles, 

Whose arch on arch, their shadowed mysteries 
hold. 

To feel, beneath these vaulted tangled wilds, 
As in the spell of some cathedral old. 

Old Forest Paths ! I love your hidden ways, 
Your mystery that thrills my whole soul 
through. 

To be alone within your tangled maze, 
To be alone with Nature's God, and you. 



'^-l 



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The Stream s Encnantment 

When deep within a tangled forest 
I find a crystal moss-rimmed stream, 

There for a time I sit and wonder, 
Wondering, rest I there and dream. 

While o'er the mossy stones the waters 
Sing sweetly as they glide away, 

Their magic then once more brings o'er me, 
Fond memories of a by-gone day. 

From out the murmur of the waters, 
Voices of friends I used to know 

There once again, seem they to call me 
Back to those days of long ago. 

The stream, the moss-grown bank, the forest 
Then from my vision slowly fade. 

Once more in fancy am I roaming 

Where boyhood's happy scenes were laid. 



Rhymes of the Stream and Forest. 

The stream where first I learned of fishing, 
The pond o'er which the willow hung, 

The swimmin' hole, the elm above it 
From where in June the robin sung. 

The scent of daisies from the meadow, 

The bobolink's clear melody. 
The quail's far call from out the pasture, 

The breath of that fair Summer's day. 

The wood where in the Fall we gathered 

The nuts among the fallen leaves, 
The spell of Winter o'er the woodland, 

Its hush again my soul receives. 

Then do you wonder that I love it. 

Sweet music of a forest stream, 
That 'round my soul weaves such enchantment, 

The gladness of a boyhood dream. 







\Valton s Angler 

Old Walton ! Here within thy book what sweet- 
ness lies. 

What whispered fancies here from out thy pages 
rise, 

Of waters flowing peacefully 'neath summer 
skies. 



Of shadowed nooks upon some quiet river's 
shore, 

Where far from deafening tumult of the city's 
roar, 

One turns for rest when for a time his task is 
o'er. 



Rhymes of the Stream and Forest. 

Of meadows freshened by the gently faUing rain, 

Of wayside inns, where old-time friends meet 

once again, 
To crack a merry jest or sing some old refrain. 



In fancy thus I catch the flowing river where, 
Bathed by the incense of the perfume-laden air, 
You, Walton, stand in pure contentment fishing 
there. 




1 I 



Tke Trout s Beauty 



You may sing of the glory of jewels, 
Of the flash of the diamond's ray, 

Of the lights that glow in the western sky 
At the close of some perfect day. 

You may sing of the splendors of daybreak, 

Of the tint of the tropic skies, 
Of the morning glow o'er some distant sea 

Where the drift of the cloud-bank lies. 

But for me there's a far richer beauty 
With a wealth of color more rare 

Than the play of the fairest earth-won gem, 
Or the lights of the 'lumined air. 

A rich beauty, the rarest in Nature, 
Or the wealth of an artist's dream, 

That is found in the glory of color 
Of a trout from some crystal stream. 




Fisning 

You ask me, why I love this fishing, 
Why, by some quiet stream I care to stray, 

When far from out the south a-blowing. 
The wind comes gently at the break of day. 

You ask me, why I love to harken 

As o'er the mossy stones, the waters sing. 

Why, often there, I stop and ponder 

The message that those laughing waters bring. 

I answer: Have you tried this fishing. 

When 'round your soul life's weary burdens 
lie? 

Have you gone forth and heard the waters 

That sing of peace, beneath God's open sky? 

Of peace and rest, rest for one weary. 

Of strength to throw aside some long-borne 
care. 

That joy one only finds a-fishing. 

Such have I found beside the waters there. 



9 




Old Rod 

Old rod, we've traveled many miles 
Since first we started out together, 

We've seen some fishing, you and I, 
In pleasant and in rainy weather. 

We've started in the early dawn 

When other folks were still a-dreaming, 

We've caught the first rays of the sun 
Above the eastern tree-tops beaming. 

We've brushed the dew from off the grass 
In May, when first the birds were singing. 

Such music, you and I have heard 

From out the waking woodland ringing ! 

We've heard the songs of many streams 

In woodland and in grass-grown meadow. 

The water purling o'er the stones 

We've seen in sunlight and in shadow. 

10 



Rhymes of the Stream and Forest. 

We've seen the flowers that early grow 
Near where the water cold is running, 

We've found the May Flower's dainty star 
In dryer spots, its petals sunning. 

We've felt the breath of early Spring, 

We've fished where Summer's streams were 
flowing, 

We've fished again, when o'er the land 
The late Fall winds were rudely blowing. 

We've traveled home at dewey eve, 

Sometimes with basket full to brimming. 

More often, truth to tell, the fish 

We should have caught, were still a-swimming. 




II 








i ne Forest v oices 

I have heard of old the Forest Voices calhng, 
In Spring's fair freshness and in Summer's 
deeper green. 
In the Autumn, when the ripened leaves were 
falling, 
And yet again, when Winter held the changing 
scene. 



The moaning of the beaten storm-swept forest 
trees, 
The varied sounds of life within the shadowed 
wood, 
Of such are built the forest's wondrous sym- 
phonies, 
That heard by men, are yet but faintly under- 
stood. 



12 



Rhymes of the Stream and Forest. 

Could I but catch the pine tree's whispered 
melody, 
The murmured singing of some crystal forest 
stream, 
Then would I rhyming build such perfect har- 
mony 
As once perhaps was heard in some sweet 
poet's dream. 




13 




ft 



I m A Longing 



I'm a-longing for the magic of the hills, 

For the waters where the speckled fighters 
rise, 

For the murmur of the moss-rimmed hidden rills 
In the valley where the mountain shadow lies. 

I'm a-longing for the balsam-scented breeze, 
For the fragrance of the moisture-laden air, 

For the network of the grand old forest trees, 
And the silence of the woods about one there. 

I'm a-longing once again the trail to thread. 
Where the shadows of the trees unbroken lie, 

Where the moss sinks deep beneath the silent 
tread. 
And the coolness hides beneath the sultry sky. 

Yes, I'm longing for those dear old hidden ways. 

In my dreams their hallowed spots again I see. 
Then I live once more those by-gone camping 
days. 

And anew, I catch the forest mvsterv. 



14 




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Tne Brook 

(in summer.) 

The brook in Summer, and the meadow fair, 
The ripple's murmur from its stony bed. 
The deep still pool where wide the willows 
spread, 

Its face unstirred by breath of sultry air, 

Within its depths, the fish suspended there 
On idly moving fins. The mystic thread 
That marks the eddy at the ripple's head. 

The laziness of Summer everywhere. 

The richer green where cool the water flows 
'Gainst grass-grown bank, by winding, silent 
way, 
Then gliding where the brookside tangle 
grows. 
Unseen, the silent current steals away 
To hidden depths, that but the muskrat knows, 
While over all the spell of this fair day. 

17 



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(in autumn.) 

Go seek the brook when Autumn's crystal haze 
Lies o'er the distant wood and silent fields, 
The course, where silently the current steals 

In shrunken volume, through the weedy maze 

Where still the green of early Summer stays, 
Last green that to the touch of Autumn yields 
As o'er the land her mystic spell she wields 

Before the chill approach of Winter days. 



Now choked by Summer's tangled growth of 
weeds, 
How noiselessly the water glides away 
By leaf-strewn brink, where twisting channel 
. leads 

To silent depths. Then by some hidden way 
Where measuredly, the eddy slow recedes, 
As though 'twere here the water fain would 
stay. 



(in winter.) 

Hushed was the murmur of the frozen stream 

As by its course we stood, one Winter's day. 

Ice-bound from bank to bank its surface lay, 
But still there filtered through that icy screen 
A half-caught hint of flowing waters green, 

From where they still pursued their prisoned 
way. 

Low o'er the snow-clad fields, the clouds of 
gray, 
Lent somber color to the Winter scene. 



The drifted snows above the hidden bank, 
The muskrat's muddied track along the 
shore, 
Where late the meadow grass in masses rank 
Had grown. While careless step of ours no 
more, 
As then in unseen tunneled burrowings, sank, 
For firm, the ice-bound crust, our passage 
bore. 

19 



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(in spring.) 

The swollen, turbid meadow brook of Spring, 
Chill waters laden with the melting snow, 
The twisting eddies and the current's flow, 

In broken ranks, the drifting ice-cakes bring. 

The flood, far o'er the meadow wandering. 
Along its course, in muddied row on row 
The jagged cakes, the lapping waters throw 

Then seize and onward down the current swing. 



The crunch and tinkle where the ice-cakes 
grind, 
The voice unceasing, of the swollen stream. 
The lisp and murmur where the waters wind 
Through sodden tangled grass. The far- 
caught gleam 
Of foam-flecked meadow, where now uncon- 
fined. 
The spreading waters claim the lowland 
scene. 

20 




TKe Moose 

Far in the west, the yellow sun went down, 
Behind the distant hills of darkening gray. 

The wind had ceased and life gave forth no 
sound. 
For over all, the forest-stillness lay. 

A crystal lake among the tree-clad hills 
Gave back the last departing golden ray. 

Its waters fed by countless woodland rills 
For ages thus had sped the parting day. 

About the shores of this fair northern lake 

A mighty moose, his Summer home had made. 

Here had he turned and found his woodland 
mate, 
With crashing haste, her forest call obeyed. 

October's golden haze again spread o'er 

The lake and woodland where the moose had 
dwelt. 

Impatient tramped the beast the forest^ floor, 
Once more his heart, the wander-spirit felt. 

23 



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To that far call, his blood in answer burned, 
Then forth to haunts untried, his course he 
laid. 
Far toward the south his steps at last were 
turned. 
Nor rage, nor fear, instinct alone obeyed. 

A hunter deeply learned in forest ways, 

Whose heart had felt the Autumn-spirit's call, 

For miles had trod the woodland's tangled maze, 
For guide, his sense of forest-craft was all. 

An unknown, sheltered lake at last he found, 
Back from whose rocky shores, his home he 
made. 

His simple tent beside a grassy mound, 

Within, his bed of fragrant boughs, he laid. 

Here dwelt the man, till o'er the western wood, 
The hunter's moon, its silver crescent hung. 

Then stirred within his soul, the hunter's mood. 
And o'er his back, his trusty gun, he slung. 

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With horn of bark hung ready at his side, 

Swiftly he passed along the lake's dark shore, 

Until a spot he reached, where spreading wide 
A sandy beach, the moon's pale light spread 
o'er. 

Here then he paused and raised the birchen horn. 

Then echoed far an uncouth, mournful call. 
Weird melody, by tree and hilltop borne. 

Strange longing note, with plaintive rise and 
fall. 

Then with the passing of that long-draw^n note 

An added quiet o'er the forest fell. 
No call in answer came, howe'er remote, 

No sound of life, to break the moonlight's spell. 

A moment's pause, again the horn he raised. 
Once more, the call the sleeping echoes woke. 

Then from within a distant tangled maze 
An answering: call, the forest silence broke. 



25 



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Far from his northern home the moose had 
strayed 

By winding hidden ways, untried before, 
His course still by the mating instinct swayed, 

In silence trod the beast, the forest floor. 

When with the coming of that moonlit night 
Unto his ear, was borne the hunter's call. 

His muscles tenser grew, keen for the fight. 
Then for a space was silence over all. 

That long-drawn note again its summons sent, 
Then with a roar, his answering challenge 
sped. 

Trees, shrubs, all else, before his anger bent, 
Beneath the onrush of that antlered head. 

When well adown the mountain's rocky side. 
Caution once more the creature's instinct 
swayed. 
His haste withheld, far through the trees de- 
scried 
The lake's faint gleam. 'His onward rush was 
stayed. 

26 




Then, as a shadow through the darkened wood, 
Once more the beast resumed his onward way, 

Till well within the tree-lined shore he stood, 
Before him bathed in light the sand beach lay. 

No massive shape within the moonlight stood, 
No mate nor rival bull awaited there. 

The black unbroken outline of the wood 

Gave forth no taint upon the chill night air. 

Some time in silence stood the listening bull, 
Then sounded, close at hand, a plaintive call. 

Forth on the beach he plunged, huge, masterful, 
With head upraised on massive shoulders tail. 

A second thus he stood in waiting mien, 

Then from the nearby copse, a spurt of flame. 

The hunter's rifle sped its yellow gleam, 
True in the woodman's hand its deadly aim. 



27 



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The mighty beast sore hit, with crashing- phmge 
Backward into the forest plowed his way. 

With fiery, stinging pain, each forward lunge, 
He knew that northward only safety lav. 

With eyes still true to thread the forest ways. 
On, on, the wounded beast in terror fled. 

Far toward the north, he trod the tangled maze. 
His heaving sides now stained a tawny red. 

Throughout that weary, pain-filled, moon-lit 
night, 
The wounded moose kept on his blood-stained 
way. 
His blinding fear no rest allowed his flight 
Until the daylight o'er the forest lay. 

Then sank the beast within the forest there, 
A moment's rest before his flight renewed, 

The while, his nostrils test the morning air. 
Then northward once again his flight pursued. 

28 



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Five weary nights and days of throbbing pain, 
The moose pressed onward toward his haunts 
of old, 

His rests more frequent grown, then on again. 
His blood-shot eye still true, his course to hold. 

The wounded beast's pursuit long given o'er, 
To other trails, the hunter's steps had turned. 

To regions tried by such as he before. 

When in their veins, the lust to kill, had 
burned. 

The fifth long weary day was nearly done. 

The moose's long flight of pain, was almost 
o'er, 
As sank behind the hills, the yellow sun, 

The beast broke forth upon the lake's cool 
shore. 

That hidden, northern lake, by men unknown, 
Where free from hunted fear the moose had 
dwelt, 

Secure within his northland forest home 
Till in his blood, October's call he felt. 

29 



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Now wounded sore, again the lake he sought, 
His glazing eyes once more its surface sees, 

Where motionless, in clearest crystal wrought, 
Inverted stand the outlines of the trees. 

The beast's huge form upon the lake's dim shore, 
As oft' of old at twilight he had stood. 

With antlered head upraised, his glance sweeps 
o'er 
The waters, to the far shore's darkened wood. 

A moment thus he stands, then o'er his frame 
Again the wound's dull throb, its tremors 
spread. 

Then to his knees, the beast sinks once again, 
Down, down, unto the earth, that massive head. 

One mighty effort more to rise, he makes. 
Then o'er his form, death's quiet, slowly 
creeps. 

The sun's last ray, that northern lake forsakes. 
As by its shore the fallen monarch sleeps. 

30 



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nV inter s SIoav Retreat 

To one who walks alone in early Spring 
Among the trees where falls a dreary rain, 
By hidden paths where sheltered drifts remain, 

Slow melting snows of Winter, lingering, 

'Midst happier thoughts, some notes of sadness 
ring 
Their measured cadence, leaving in their train 
A sense of sorrow, sorrow fraught with pain 

Soul-felt, that passing, leaves no after-sting. 

The leaves in sodden mass beneath the feet, 
No sound the footfall makes, while every- 
where 
The drifting raindrops fall with whispered 
beat, 
With still a feel of snow, within the air, 
A chill that tells of Winter's slow retreat, 
And yet the breath of Spring still greets us 
there. 



33 





f-' 



Nigkt's Witchery 

How often have I lain at night alone 
Within the shadow of some sheltering pine, 
While o'er my head the wind made somber moan 
As through the trees I watched the moon's 

decline. 
The wind-swept boughs with spectral tracery 
In ever changing form, against the sky, 
While faintly o'er the wind's wild melody 
I caught some wandering night-bird's far-borne 

cry. 
The scudding clouds beyond the swaying trees, 
The open places where the stars gleamed cold, 
On such a night, borne on the freshened breeze, 
The Spirits of the Wind, wild revel hold. 
Thus, while the hours of darkness sped away 
Night's witchery upon my spirit lay. 



34 







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At Nigkt 

(a contrast.) 

The blaze of myriad lights adown the city street, 
The rumbled hum of traffic and the tramp of feet, 
The throng, where gem-clad wealth and humble 
beggar meet. 



The city's massive structures rising grim and tall, 
The eye-like gleam of windows from each storied 

wall, 
The moon's pale face unwearied watching over 

all. 



35 



J.l 



Thy V oice 

Fair Nature's God, how often have I felt 
Thy Presence, when within the deeper wood 
In Hstening reverie have I silent stood 

Where but the untamed forest creatures dwelt. 

Around me there, the wood's deep silence lay, 
Save where from out the north a wandering 

breeze 
In murmured passage o'er the higher trees 

Gave there Thy Voice, in forest melody. 

Or when within some wilder, deep-toned mood 
The harsher winds, the forest branches bend, 
While far abroad, the moaning tree-tops send 

Their storm-flung warnings from the ancient 
wood, 

Then have I heard in sterner mood, Thy Voice, 
Upon the sweeping wind, its accent borne. 
The stricken trees before the storm-wind torn, 

Seemed in their cry, to even then rejoice. 



36 




To Prime s ""I Go A-Fisking" 

Would that my humble pen, some tribute rare, 

might pay, 
To thee, well styled the Walton of a later day, 
Who builded here in prose, poetic harmony. 



Book of rare fancies ! Here within thy volume 

bound 
A charm once felt, then gladdens all life's weary 

round. 
How often have I here, contentment sought, and 

found. 



39 



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''" Have 1 ou Any Fisn ? 

Suggested by the first chapter of Prime's 

"I Go A-FlSHING." 



"I go a-fishing," Peter said. 

Said the rest, "We go with thee." 
So they journeyed down at the close of day, 

To their boat by the sun-set sea. 

For the Master bade them wait Him, 

Till He should appear again, 
So to pass through the waiting hours, once more 

To fish, went those earnest men. 

Could I but gather the story 

Of that night in Galilee. 
Such a fisherman's tale would then unfold. 

As there never again will be. 

Of the words and truths there spoken, 

The hopes of those fishermen. 
As the night hours passed and they waited there 

Until He should appear again. 

40 



Rhymes of the Stream and Forest. 

As the first pale lights of the morning 

Spread over that waiting sea, 
To the watchers there, rang a voice, sweet toned, 

From the shores of old Galilee. 

Those words, oft heard by the fisher 

As the years have rolled away, 
"Have you any fish?" asked the Saviour there, 

In the dawn of that long-gone day. 

How often, my brother angler, 

Home returning, wearily. 
Have we heard in greeting, those words of old. 

At the end of some happy day. 

And hearing, then in our fancy 

The dawn of that day we see. 
When the Saviour called to His fishermen 

O'er the waters of Galilee. 




41 



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The Forest Silence 

To one, who far from human-kind has dwelt 

Within the forest's dim untrodden way, 
And 'round whose soul night's mystery has crept, 

As o'er the woods the pall of darkness lay, 
To such as he, without whose cabin door 

Unmoved has stood, while o'er his senses fall 
The death-like silence of the ancient woods, 

The wonder of that stillness over all. 
Unto his mind there comes an unformed sense 

Of what Eternity's vast gloom must be. 
Eternity on earth, when life has passed, 

Vast throbbing life, of air, of land and sea. 
Such silent gloom as once enwrapt the earth 

In ages past, before life's germ was sent. 
Such silence as in time to come, will be, 

When from the earth, life's vital force is spent. 



42 



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Lord of the Forest 

Lord of the Forest ! Whose clear voice is heard 
In whispered accents from the murmuring 
pine, 

A hint of splendor from whose throne we see 
As from some lake, we watch the sun's decline. 

Lord of the Winds, that o'er the forests blow 
From out the Northland's ice-enveloped 
strand. 

Or in some gentler mood caress the trees 

When Summer's spell enwraps the forest land. 

Lord of the ever-singing Forest Streams, 

Whose murmuring voices chant Thy song of 
praise. 
Lord of the tree-bound Lakes, from whose fair 
shores 
The tree-clad hills, their slopes in grandeur 
raise. 

Lord of the Life that in the forest dwells, 
That life, unseen, unheard, except by Thee ; 

May we who love Thy forest ways, there find 
Full understanding of Thy majesty. 

45 




Ah 



The V oices 

Voices that sigh and murmur 
In accents strange and low, 

Voices, but heard in the forest 

When the northland breezes blow. 

Voices that fade and vanish 

With a breath of the freshened air, 
And leave but a hint of their passing, 

To one who listens there. 

Voices once heard, ne'er forgotten, 

That in memory ever seem 
As of some whispered presence. 

In the imagery of a dream. 



46 



Ne-wfound Lake — A M^emory 

The glory of the far-hill's purple haze, 

Embanked beneath the wonder-tinted sky, 
Where mass on mass in distant splendor, lie 

The clouds, lit by the sun's departing rays. 

While from the lake's far shore, the forest maze 
Enwraps the rugged hills, to where on high 
Their rock-faced peaks, the wild-voiced winds, 
defy. 

When o'er the hills, the forked lightning plays. 

The shadows lengthen and the daylight fades, 

The little stars once more, in lustre rare 
Peep forth above the distant forest glades, 

While borne adown the ever-freshening air 
The chill of night again the soul invades, 
And darkness spreads its blanket every- 
where. 

47 





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'^: ' ^ 




Xne Forest 





You ask me, why I love the forest, 

Why, far from traveled ways I love to roam. 
And deep within the shadowed wildwood 

Make, for a time, my woodland home. 

You ask me, why the forest calls me, 
Why dream I often of its hidden ways ; 

Why, when the cares of life surround me, 
Before me rise those bygone camping days. 

I answer ; Have you known the forest, 

When, with the breath of peace, it murmurs 
low? 

Have you, within its shelter lingered, 

As round about, the far-sent breezes blow ? 

Once know, my friend, the rare enchantment 
That lurks Vvithin the shadowed forest old, 

There will you turn again, when weary. 
To forest-sheltered realms of peace untold. 

48 




The Player 

Upon the walls the mystery of the firelight's play, 
Within the blackened hearth, the fairy-like array 
Of flames that for the moment dance, then fade 
away. 

And fading-, then the shadows gather over all, 
Save for the glow of embers, and the silvery fall 
Of moonlight patches on the rough-hewn cabin 
wall. 

And as the shadows deepen and the firelight dies. 
The player bids once more, a strain of music rise, 
More wondrous than the song of birds 'neath 
summer skies. 



51 







Then as the strain's enchantment floods the dark- 
ened air 

There flow from out its mystic spell, dim fancies 
rare, 

While ever-changing shadow-forms glide 'round 
us there. 

We catch the voice of rivers and the sigh of trees, 
The murmur of the pines where sweeps the forest 

breeze, 
The calls of bird-land and the drowsy hum of 

bees. 

A pause, then from the magic strings, a wilder 

strain, 
A moan, as of some coming storm's far-heard 

refrain, 
Commingled with the distant beating of the rain. 



52 



A 




Louder and ever louder rings that note of storm. 
The crash of trees, from out their root-bound 

moorings, torn, 
Now, o'er us, on the wind's wild melody, is 

borne. 

The music changes and we catch the tramp o'f 

feet, 
The swing of marshaled hosts adown some dusty 

street. 
To war-like call of fife, and drum's unwearied 

beat. 

Again the music ceases and the player's bow 
A time is stilled. Then o'er the strings in move- 
ment slow 
It passes. While, as though in joy, they murmur 
low. 



53 



•1 









Spell-bound we listen, while a breath of child- 
hood steals 
About the soul. And as the silent player wields 
His wondrous art, unto the spell the spirit yields. 

Of childhood and a care-free youth, the music 

tells, 
Then to the ear is borne the peal of marriage 

bells, 
As sweeter still, the strain's enchantment ever 

swells. 

Stronger it grows, built of the height of man- 
hood's prime. 

Then falters and in strains of sterner, measured 
time, 

A note of sadness breathes a hint of life's decline. 



54 



Rhymes of the Stream and Forest. 

And then a feeble step upon the bedroom stair, 
The drawn, hushed whispers of the watchers 

waiting there, 
The toll of funeral bell, upon the morning air. 



The music ceases and the smouldering embers 

fade, 
The player rests, his slender bow aside is laid. 
The silent shadows deepen, and each soul invade. 




55 



CxV^-^ ^^ ;i^'^ H)^^ 



>M\ V 



At Evening 



A few short hours and dayhght vanishes, 
The hush of evening falls and night is come. 

A few fair days, and Summer languishes, 
The Autumn passes and the fields grow dun. 

A few glad years of life and love and sorrow, 
The twilight gathers and we stand alone. 

Friendship's circle broken as we wait the morrow. 
Expectant for the call that bids us home. 



56 




^ 




And Yet Again 

An angler newly wise to ways of fish, 
Had often heard from friends that ancient tale, 

"I hooked another, with a rush and swish 
I lost him, and by George ! he was a whale !" 

And at such tales, our friend was wont to smile. 
That smile wherein is mixed a grain of doubt. 

"To-morrow, then," quoth he, "I'll fish a while, 
And mark you, sir. Til land my largest trout." 

Back from the sparkling stream he came, 
Refreshed but weary-limbed, at close of day, 

And to inquiring friends, his tale the same. 
The largest fish he'd hooked had got away. 



59 









My Fly-Book 

I've a treasure, spotted, stained and worn, 
That I would not change for gold. 

For money would never yield the charm 
That lies in my fly-book old. 

For we've listened to many waters 

In days that are now gone by, 
And we often commune together, 

Do my old fly-book and I. 

Of things that are known to no other, 
Of streams where the waters sing. 

Of woodlands where, when the south winds blow, 
The bells of the forest ring. 

Of the fair face of a forest lake, 

And the trees along the shore, 
Ripples that break from the birch canoe 

As we glide the surface o'er. 



60 



Rhymes of the Stream and Forest. 

Of rising trout and the circles there 
That spread and then die away, 

Of the Httle stars that o'er the trees 
Rise clear, at the close of day. 

For we've wandered far, old book, and found 

That happiness true, that lies 
In singing brooks and the tree-bound lakes 

Where the speckled beauties rise. 

We have journeyed so long together 

As the years have rolled away 
May I find you here in my pocket 

When I fish on that last glad day. 




6t 



A:.,.%_4:. - 1 



A- 



Tke Old Man s Story 

The old man sat in his great arm-chair, 

His fly-book on his knee, 
And we hstened all, to the tale he told, 

Of the fish that used to be. 

For his eyes were clear, though his hair was 
white, 

And the old fly-book was worn. 
And his thin hand shook as he lifted there 

Those flies with feathers torn. 

'"Twas back in the days of long ago 
That 1 fished that mountain stream, 

And the month was June, and the day was one 
When we anglers fish and dream. 

Full many a fish to my creel had come 

From the pools far up the hill, 
Ere I reached the edge of the pasture green 

Where the brook flows deep and still. 

62 




You know the pool where the shelving bank 

Hangs wide o'er the willow's root. 
My flies shot clear of the low-hung branch, 

Then sank at the rapid's foot. 

Though 'twas years ago that good fish rose, 

To me, as tho' yesterday, 
There comes the glint of his silvery sides 

And the flash of the rising spray. 

My line snapped taut and my reel yelled keen, 

As I met that glorious rise, 
And the hook sank deep in the iron-like jaws 

Of that fish of wondrous size. 

Then he sped below to the pool's black depths, 

And my trusty rod bent low, 
While my taut line sang through the water clear. 

Like the whirr of the redman's bow. 



63 




fk 



But at last he turned from his downward rush 
And sped toward the shelving bank, 

Where my line scraped harsh on the willow's 
root 
While the heart within me sank. 

But the old line held and the day was won 

For at last that good fish lay 
'Mid the grass and ferns of the pasture bank 

In the light of that fair June day. 

The largest fish in my creel that night, 
For he weighed just two pounds four, 

Do you wonder then that in memory oft 
I fight that battle o'er ?" 

His old eyes closed, for the tale was done, 
And his thoughts on that far-off day 

Of that time long gone and that largest fish 
That failed to get away. 



64 



Song of the Forest 

I sing from the heart of the throbbing Hfe, 

From the sap within the tree, 
From the hidden flowers 'neath the matted leaves, 

And the south wind blowing free. 

I sing from the cool of the shadowed glade. 
When the Summer's sun rides high, 

From the deepened green of the full-grown 
leaves, 
'Neath the heat of the sultry sky. 

Once again I sing, when the Autumn winds 
Blow chill o'er the woods of brown, 

And the ripened leaves on the freshened air 
Come silently drifting down. 

Then I sing once more, when the drifted snows 

Lie deep in the forests gray 
And the cold white light of the Winter's moon 

Gleams chill at the close of day. 



67 




'^■^:^ 




'armacnenee 



BelL 



An Ibis or a Hackle 

Shall I fix on my cast to-day? 
Or shall I trust to a Grizzly King, 

Or the gold of a Yellow May? 

Or pin my faith to a Coachman, 

Or a Silver Doctor try? 
For the dav grows dark as the thickening clouds 

Drift low in the sultry sky. 

But tucked away in a pocket 

Of my fly-book, old and worn, 
I've a faded fly of a day gone by, 

With its feathers stained and torn. 



68 



Rhymes of the Stream and Forest. 

Trusted in many battles 

Under shadowed or sunny skies, 

Never yet has that old fly lost its charm 
When the fish were on the rise. 



So looped again on my leader 
Once more let me cast the spell 

Of the yellow and white, and faded red, 
Of the Parmachenee Belle. 




69 





■^^. 



Coming of the Storm 

Heat-laden, dull, oppressive was tlie air, 

The sun's hot face shone with an undimmed 
ray. 

The silence of the woods enwrapt us there, 
As on the lake's fair shore, we stood that day. 

Few were the whispers of a sultry breeze. 
Unmoved, the forest's green beneath it lay. 

All motionless, save where the higher trees 
Its lightest touch, but answered silently. 

Clear-cut as though the trees inverted stood 
The far-shore's deep reflection met the eye, 

Each varied color of that distant wood 

The lake's face pictured 'neath that heated sky. 

Within the shadow of the distant shore, 

A solitary loon swam lazily. 
That bit of life but emphasized the more 

The solitude of that still summer's day. 



70 




In darkened mass, low o'er the western hills, 
Embanked in thickening haze, the storm clouds 
lay. 

Their curtain, all the far horizon filled 
With ever-changing mass, in wild array. 

Thus while we stood, a greater silence fell, 
A stillness as of death, spread 'round us there. 

Lake, forest, all within that silent spell, 

Hushed were the whispers of the sultry air. 

O'er all, a moment thus the silence hung, 

Then borne afar from out the darkened west, 

From where the storm, its gathering shadows 
flung, 
A murmur of its coming, manifest. 

A far-heard beating on the forest leaves, 
A sound as of some faintly distant shore. 

Whose beaten sand, the curling wave, receives, 
As from the sea, the ocean breeze sweeps o'er. 



71 




A 



With force increasing, onward swept the storm. 

The trees beneath it, cried in wild intone. 
Their swaying tops low by the wild winds borne, 

Swept onward to our ears, its sullen moan. 

The first few scattered raindrops reached the lake. 
Their patter heard above the wind's refrain. 

Then, wall-like, followed close within their wake, 
The drenching down-pour of the driven rain. 

Then swept o'er lake and wood, the storm's wild 
roar. 

The waters whipped to foam beneath its blow. 
The waves thrown high upon the beaten shore. 

The forest trees before its blast, bent low. 

Above the shrieking of the winds, was borne, 
From out the far shore's wild, wind-swept 
lagoon, 

As though some fiend in torment rode the storm. 
The weird, unearthly laughter of the loon. 



72 







#'■ 



Xne Unkno'wn Lake 

A Summer agone we found you 

Walled by the forest old, 
Your crystal waters freshened 

Where the hidden springs gushed cold. 

How passed the spell of Autumn 

When the ripened leaves came down, 

And on your sheltered waters 
Built them their rafts of brown? 

Now, locked in your ice-formed mantle 
'Neath the gray of the Winter's sky 

Unrufiled, unmoved, unseeing, 
Your silent waters lie. 

But the Winter days shall lengthen 

And the time of waiting wane, 
And we, who have found and loved you, 

Shall come to our own again. 



75 



^•J 



^1 



At tke Trail's End 

Mile after mile we have traveled 
By the trail's long winding way, 

'Til deep in the ancient forest 
We rest at the close of day. 

Stretched is the roof of canvas, 
Fresh-pulled the balsam boughs, 
While the camp-fire's new-born crackling 
The woodland spirits rouse. 

The evening meal is finished, 

Tobacco's spell holds sway, 
And we drowse and speak of the morrow, 

And plan for the coming day. 



76 



Rhymes of the Stream and Forest. 

Hushed is the darkened forest 

'Neath the spell of the northern night, 

While the shadows dance and vanish 
With the play of the camp-fire's light. 

We drowse, and the spell of the firelight 

Brings fancies dim and old, 
Peopled with new-found faces, 

W^ith the charm of some tale untold. 

But the fancies change and vanish 

As the dancing firelight dies. 
And we sleep that rare sleep of the forest 

Till the winds of the mornins: rise. 




77 




<fh 



^ 



To Y Pond 

May the trout rise 

And the loons laugh 
From thy crystal waters, 

Till all we who love thee 
Have hit the one great trail 
To the last camping ground. 



78 













n 


p'h 


'h 


•i 








t 


^ 


^ 


' ^^ 


i' 


1 .■ 



Cry of tne Loon 

Voice of the lake and forest solitude. 

Weird cry that echoes o'er the water's face, 
As though some spirit lost, within this place 

Its cry of anguish, here, again renewed. 

Or, ringing o'er the forest's silent spell, 

The loon's wild laughter smites the moveless 

air, 
As though in mockery of my presence, where 

By ancient right, the wild-folk only dwell. 

Or when adown the wind there wails the storm. 
And on the wave-tossed lake the loon rides 

free, 
Commingled with that storm-sung melody, 

Again that laughter to my ear is borne. 

There comes a time within each passing year 
When, for the North, my soul yearns long- 
ingly, 
Then, heard as in a dream, the loon's weird 
cry, 
Bids me return unto the forests dear. 



8i 




AA' inter V oices 

With murmurs low, within this snow-bound dell 
The woodland brook proclaims its ice-bound 
way, 

Soft, tinkling note, as of some distant bell 
Far-heard across the fields, this Winter's day. 

Borne clear, upon the biting snow-filled air 
There comes the call of some belated crow 

Whose flight delayed, now seeks the shelter 
where 
Night after night, his dusky comrades go. 

From out the hillside's gray entangled wood 
There comes the clamor of the crested jay. 

Voice of the Past ! How often have I stood 
Within thy spell, upon some long-gone day. 

82 



Rhymes of the Stream and Forest. 

At intervals, upon the passing- breeze 

Is borne the baying of some tireless hound, 

As eagerly he trails among the trees 

Where passed the fox upon his nightly round. 

Such were the voices of that Winter's day, 

Such sounds I heard as 'neath the trees I stood, 

Where branch on branch the frost-king's mantle 
lay 
And muffled were the voices of the wood. 




K.}^-f''''^ 



83 






•^x 



1 



nV ilderness 

I stood in wonder on that mountain crest, 

For northward stretched the forest's mystery, 

As though in billows tossed, and yet at rest, 
There lay the grandeur of some spell-bound 
sea. 

While scattered o'er that waste of forest trees, 
The smiling faces of a myriad lakes 

Laughed, as their waters felt the wandering 
breeze, 
That o'er the woods, its silent passage makes. 

Far to the north, enshrined in purple haze, 
A distant mountain range in grandeur lay. 

Its forest-covered sides and tangled maze 
But dimly seen, beneath the sun's clear ray. 

Unseen, but heard from where I wondering stood, 
The murmur of some distant water's fall. 

The only voice from out that silent wood. 
The wilderness enchantment over all. 



84 




Dome^vhere 

Somewhere the hungry trout are rising 

On waters 'neath the sunset's fading glow. 

Somewhere the Httle stars are peeping 

O'er forests where the twihght breezes blow. 

Somewhere the ripples on the water 

In silver patches rest, then slowly fade. 

Somewhere the lily-pads are lying 

There close within the far-shore's deeper 
shade. 

Somewhere the thirsty deer is wading 

In shallow waters near the darkened shore. 

Somewhere the moose, the lake is seeking, 
His heated sides to splash its coolness o'er. 

It's somewhere then I would be going 

When twilight's spell falls 'round the closing 
day. 

To somewhere, lake and forest call me. 
Would that I might that far-sent call obey. 



87 









The Fallen Pine 

Within a tangled swamp, the tree we found, 
Its aged trunk moss-grown o'er years decay. 

Part upright still, it stood, part on the ground, 
A fallen giant of a long-gone day. 

Then came a vision of that olden time, 
Pictured in fancy there before the eye. 

Once more within the wood, there stood the pine, 
Its twisted top far-flung against the sky. 

With massive trunk high o'er the smaller trees, 
A sentinel thus for ages has it stood. 

First warnings felt of every storm-sent breeze 
That swept the branches of that ancient wood. 

In Summer, o'er the heat-enveloped glade, 
Those twisted boughs, their varied shadows 
spread. 
Plere paused the deer, within their deeper shade. 
At night, here sought he then, his moss-grown 
bed. 

88 



Rhyiiics of the Stream and Forest. 

When Winter's winds, their icy burdens brought, 
And decked this pine in crystal drapery, 

What beauty here, the snow-king's magic 
wrought 
In untold forms of wondrous tracery. 

Such forest music must this tree have known 
When through its boughs, the wandering 
winds have stirred, 
Could but some mighty organ now intone, 

Would hold in raptured spell, all those who 
heard. 

Could I but call from out those long-passed days. 
The whispered melody of this lone pine, 

Then to such heights, would I these verses raise, 
That all the world would harken to my rhyme. 




89 



Going flome 

Old Northern Hills, once more I'm going home. 

Thy loved and hallowed spots I bid good-bye, 
Where for a time, has been my share to roam 

And know the joys that in thy shadows lie. 

For here, old Hills, I've found that welcome rest, 
That rest which 'round the soul new gladness 
throws. 

That lifts from off a heart, care-worn, depressed, 
That heavy, long-borne load, one weary knows. 

But, for a time, old Hills, once more we part. 

Now fades the murmur of thy crystal streams. 
Within the shadow of thy forest heart, 

No more the welcome of our camp-fire gleams. 

If on sonie last sad day, my share should be. 
To thread no more thy shadowed hidden ways, 

Old Hills, how often then thy mystery 

Would in my heart, thy loved remembrance 
raise. 

90 



JUN 25 1909 



